The Case of the Antique Massacre
by Daughter of Chaos
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is presented with a criminal client and a truly nefarious plan. When he and Watson set about to interfere, they are reminded that not all cases end happily. A fic told in 221Bs.
1. Rain for the Cab Man

The Case of the Antique Massacre

A/N: Let me preface this by saying that this story was written a few years ago for the Watson's Woes community on livejournal. Shortly after the writing of it, I found a different fandom to dip my toes in and sort of forgot the poor thing. In any case, it is done, and I'm kind of just hoarding it on my computer. I thought, "Why not share?"

This is a story pieced together by twenty different prompts and entirely fashioned from 221B's. Though some chapters have more than one 221B involved. I have not had this beta read. All mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: Clearly Holmes and Watson don't belong to me. Forgive me playing with them for a while all the same.

Chapter One: Rain for the Cab Man

There's not much a bloke what drives a hansom cab can do about crazy toffs. An' then I get this real crazy one flaggin' me down in the middle of a downpour. What could I do? I know what I wanted to do. I wanted to go home and cozy up with my wife by the fire in dry clothes. Of course, a man can't rightfully earn his supper iffn' he isn't willing to pick up crazy passengers in rainstorms or any other sort of weather.

This one, though, he comes runnin' out in front o' my horse all arms and long legs and flapping overcoat. O' course I stop. The toff, he leaps in in one bound and directs me in a truly masterly tone to whip up my horse and drive us 'round the corner. I says "Yes Gov," while thinking he best be payin' me good for this.

I makes it round the corner barely more than the span o' my horse when my passenger hails me to stop and wait and jumps to the sidewalk. I watched him take to a street lamp in three steps, where I first sees that a man be leanin' might heavy-like against it. I can't see much o' this second bloke, except a wet and muddy lookin' overcoat and bowler.

The man leaning against the light post looked up a bit stiff and slow like on approach of my passenger. He had himself a fine blonde mustache and the sort o' face t'would make girls blush at. Man had a look of only hazily recognizing my passenger when he approached, and I looked again at how he leaned on that light pole for support. Could be my crazy toff as picking up a drunken friend. They'd be payin' extra were he to sick-up in my cab.

Only I saw real quick that drink weren't the problem. The tall toff with his dark hair and his abrupt manners was gentle in pulling the other bloke's arm over his shoulder and hobbling him toward my cab. And then I sees it. The long tear in the shorter man's right trouser leg. Went from mid-thigh down past the bloke's knee. He was bleedin' bad but for a dirty bandage wrapped about his leg.

This suddenly wasn't some crazy rain-soaked rich bloke and his drunken buddy. This was serious. I jumps from my seat to offer an arm to the two in helping the wounded man up. I offered to take them to hospital. Only, they refused. So I takes em' to Baker Street like they says, and watch the rain wash away the blood.


	2. Less Than Benign

The Case of the Antique Massacre

Chapter Two: Less than Benign

The fire crackled a lively tune from our sitting room hearth one late afternoon in August. It was hardly the time of year when one usually needed the flames warmth, and in this case that need was dubious at best, but there was a damp chill which permeated the room from three days of rain that had yet to let up.

I set down the newspaper, disappointed from what I had read of the races, and stretched myself from my chair beside the fireplace. My friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, lay in a sprawled position across the settee, lightly puffing on his pipe and fingers steepled above his chest. He had a case, I knew, for his afternoon had been one of silent contemplation. He had yet to share the details and I had not prompted him on the matter.

With a soft sigh, and perhaps a slightly more pronounced limp than dryer weather would have afforded me, I stepped to the window to peer into the gloom that clouds and rainwater hand bestowed upon greater London. As it was still an active time of day, there were plenty sopping wet souls traversing the sidewalks and street in my view. I was most interested by the gentlemen with an umbrella held low crossing Baker Street straight to our own door below.

"Have you a client, Holmes?"

I queried from my stance beside the window. Holmes humored me with an answer, though he never so much as twitched from his position. "I do. The client sent round a note this morning seeking, apparently, just my opinion."

"Is your client a young gentlemen? Spry of step and favoring fashionable clothing?"

"He is indeed a young man and seems by the flair of his writing to run with a fashionable crowd. I wonder how came you by this hypothesis, Watson?"

"He has just approached our door. I do imagine Mrs. Hudson will be announcing him shortly."

Holmes's eyebrows rose and he shifted himself off the settee to greet Mrs. Hudson as we heard her tread on the stair. Our good landlady pushed open the door and handed the waiting Holmes our guest's card. "A Mr. Jacob Hunt to see you, sir."

As Mrs. Hudson retreated to gather the client, Holmes studied the card and flipped it about in nimble fingers several times. I readied myself to leave, not certain that my presence would be welcomed in Holmes's upcoming interview.

"If I may entreat you to stay, Watson," Holmes noted, "I should prefer your presence for this discourse. I fear my client's interests may be less than benign."


	3. Word Games

The Case of the Antique Massacre

Chapter Three: Word Games

Upon Holmes's announcement of his thoughts about the coming client, I straightened my back and headed back toward the top drawer of my writing desk. My friend looked up from the client's card then, his lips quirked in a half sort of smile. "I should rephrase, Doctor. I think my client may be what they call a 'fast talker.' Not a violent sort. I have no need of your gun arm, my good man, simply your stolid insight on the matter, if I may have it."

I stopped course and nodded to my friend. I was thrilled when Holmes allowed me to join him on a case, and more so when he sought the use of my instincts on a matter. "I say, you think the fellow will play games with you? You see these things quite well on your own. Of course, I will be happy to stay none-the-less."

"We shall see, Watson. Here is our client now."

Holmes bade entrance to a young chap of no more than twenty and five years. He was clean shaven with long, well trimmed, sideburns. His hair was a light shade of brown, and could be scene as cut quite stylishly when he removed his derby. He wore striped trousers and a waistcoat a the shade of bright purple blooms.

"Mr. Hunt," Holmes greeted our client, "I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. You are having a problem with honor among your peers. Pray sit down and share with us the details."

The young gentlemen nodded his head in my direction before sitting on the recently vacated settee. Holmes perched upon his chair. I fetched a tumbler of brandy for our guest before discreetly retrieving my notebook and taking my own seat by the fire.

"Thank you," the fellow said to me before returning his attention to Holmes. "As you have likely seen of my card, I am in the business of acquiring and trading antiquities. And you are correct about my problem, though it is a wonder to me that you should know of it when I wrote no such thing to you. My fellow dealers are in the midst of planning a transaction which I find morally reprehensible, though I know not if I am simply being too worried on the matter."

"Go on, Mr. Hunt. I require information to provide an opinion."

"Of course, Mr Holmes. If I may ask one question first? If I were to tell you I'm a thief, would you call Scotland Yard and announce you have been consulted by a bandit?"


End file.
